


Property of John Watson

by Hotaru_Tomoe



Series: The English job [45]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Sherlock, First Time, M/M, PWP, Red Pants, Rimming, Smut, Top John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 05:39:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18382073
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hotaru_Tomoe/pseuds/Hotaru_Tomoe
Summary: Written for the 221b-Consolation Fest on prompt of subtext-is-my-division, who asked for a PWP where Sherlock wears John's pants as if it isn't a big deal, except, for John it is, because it sparks his possessiveness.





	Property of John Watson

**Author's Note:**

  * For [subtext-is-my-division (Quill_A)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quill_A/gifts).



> I hope it's okay even if I changed your prompt a little bit.

"Okay Billy, you call the boys, I book the restaurant and JESUSHOLYCRHISTINATUNNEL! No, no, I’m not talking to you… Jesusgodinaburninghell… it’s Sherlock. No, no problems, it’s just that he is… I’ve to go, I call you later.”

John Watson is planning a dinner with some of his former brothers in arms, but he’s interrupted by Sherlock entering the kitchen.

He should be used to it and Sherlock's appearance shouldn’t provoke such a vehement reaction, since they have been flatmates for several months, but this time, unlike the other days, Sherlock is naked.

Completely naked and perfectly at ease, as he moves from the kitchen table to the fireplace, where he checks the mail, and then sits on the black squared leather armchair, which creates a mesmerizing contrast with his pale skin and the sinuous curve of his shoulders.

John’s brain suggests him that he should break out of his reverie and say something, but all that comes out of his mouth is a strangled gibberish that doesn't help his case. Indeed, he fears that it may have shown his cards: it’s not the first time he thinks that Sherlock is attractive, and now he has a really shameless proof of it. He’s not sure he can control himself.

“Sherlock…” he wheezes in the end.

“Yes, John? Is anything wrong?”

“Is… any…” he babbles, “Lord, give me strength!”

"Hm, you invoked many random Christian deities this morning: something is troubling you. Do you want to talk about it?"

“Sherlock, you are naked!” John explodes, and he can’t decide if he’s more upset by his naked flatmate or because the said flatmate isn’t upset at all.

“I know.”

“Care to enlighten me why?”

"It's summer, today it's too hot, the idea of wearing clothes appalls me."

"You should at least have the decency to wear underwear. What if a client suddenly come up and sees you like this?"

"Their fault, they should knock before entering other people's flat."

"And what about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Do you really think it would be the first time she sees me naked?"

“I don’t want to know. And what about me, then?”

“You’re a doctor. Surely I’m not the first naked man you have seen.”

“That’s not the point: this is a common area of the house and what you’re doing is unpolite,” he finishes, praying to sound convincing.

Sherlock seems to ponder his words for a while, then he gets up. 

John hopes he looked away quickly enough.

“You’re right: I’ll fetch some pants.”

“Thank you,” John sighs.

Anyway, his relief lasts very little, because when he comes back to the living room, Sherlock is wearing a pair of shocking red pants with white hem.

John knows for sure that Sherlock doesn’t own any fancy pants, because he’s the one who put away their clothes (the lazy git never bothers with it) and because those pants are his.

“Sher-lock!”

Sherlock has the audacity of rolling his eyes and, infatuation or not, John wants to strangle him.

“What now, John? I put pants on, aren’t you happy?”

“Those are my pants.”

"Mine are all dirty. You forgot to do laundry this week."

"It's not a good reason to go through my drawers."

"It’s either this, or me walking around the house naked, there are no other solutions."

John clenches his fists and lets out an almost inhuman strangled cry: on his tombstone they will have to write  _ "led to madness by the only consulting detective in the world". _

“Anyway, I don’t understand why you are so upset. I just borrowed your underwear, no big deal.”

Except, for John it is.

Because it’s something intimate, something that flatmates normally don't do, no matter how ignorant Sherlock is of social niceties.

Because John has a crush on Sherlock and seeing his delectable arse wrapped in the bright red cotton of his pants is almost worse than seeing him stark naked.

Because those pants are property of John Watson, and seeing Sherlock wear them, his brain is making very strange connections, and it’s thinking that Sherlock is property of John Watson now, so it's his right to touch him and have his way with him.

It would be reasonable for him to leave the flat right now, not to fall in temptation, but when has been John reasonable in his life? He's a madman, just like Sherlock.

"Believe me Sherlock, it's a big deal," he hisses.

"I fail to see why," Sherlock puts his hands on his arse cheeks, “they fit, except that they are slightly loose on the front for me.”

Christ in hyperuranium, is he provoking him?

Wait... he is.

John concentrates, silencing his inner hormonal storm, and looks at Sherlock: a mischievous crooked smile is plastered on his lips, he is perfectly aware of what he’s doing and the effect his naked body has on John.

"You know," John says, walking towards him.

"Obviously."

“You planned this.”

“Obviously again.”

"Why are you playing this game?"

"Because the outcome seems thrilling," Sherlock informs him in his deep, sinful voice.

John licks his lips: "What am I supposed to do with this information?"

"What you were thinking about 35 seconds ago seems like a good starting point."

A beat, two, one of John's hand touch the warm skin of his flank, the other finds its way in the soft curls, and then their lips crash together in a searing kiss that grows in intensity, fueled up by John's pent-up frustration, until they are breathless and weak in the knees.

“Here,” Sherlock moans, but John shakes his head, “No: upstairs, in my room, where my properties belong to, and where I can show how much I care for them.”

Sherlock shivers under his hands, but he nods, and up they go.

There’s another, more pedestrian reason: John doesn’t want to be interrupted by any random client or Mrs. Hudson; he feels like he would die if he doesn’t take Sherlock right now, and his room upstairs is the most secluded room of the flat.

He locks the door behind himself and shoves Sherlock on the bed, where he lands sprawled like a starfish.

There are pesky questions buzzing in the background of his mind: why now, where this will lead them, what it means, but John ignores them in favour of the alluring view before him.

Sherlock puts his arms over his head and bends one knee, opening his legs and making his erection, that tents his pants, more evident.

"You don't need to seduce me, you know," John grumbles, as he quickly frees himself of his clothes.

"I know, but it's fun."

"In a moment you won't laugh anymore," John growls and dives onto the bed, tearing a surprised yelp out of Sherlock.

The sense of ownership grows every minute inside John: Sherlock is on his bed, below him, and he's his.

His.

"Put your hands on the headboard and don't move," John commands in his military voice. He expects Sherlock to rebel, instead he follows his commands meekly. Military kink, uh? He stores the information for later uses.

He begins a sweet journey along Sherlock's body, caressing and kissing the milky skin, probing the hard bud of a nipple with the tip of his tongue, relishing in the broken sounds of Sherlock’s voice.

When John sinks his tongue into Sherlock's perfect navel, one hand tightens his healthy shoulder and John gives him a warning look.

The hand returns obediently to the headboard, and John kisses his approval on a prominent hip bone.

"Right now you're mine. Mine to touch, mine to kiss, mine to drive crazy, mine to fuck," he confesses in a feverish voice; then he grabs the hem of his pants with his teeth and drags them down, exposing Sherlock's cock. He has already seen it a little while ago, but it was quiescent, while now he is erect in all his glory, and makes John’s mouth watering.

“Eager, are we?” he whispers, grabbing the shaft in his fist.

“Ye-yes…”

“Good.”

Sherlock is not circumcised, and this spark John's fantasy; he slips his tongue between the loose foreskin and the glans in slow, maddening circles. Suddenly Sherlock's back arches, but John presses a hand on his belly to keep him still, while he continues his slow torture. Sherlock is already dripping and his strong taste invades John's mouth.

"Delicious," he murmurs, greedily sucking the tip.

"Gorgeous," he sighs, dragging his lips along the shaft.

"Tempting," he growls, reaching for his testicles, where Sherlock's smell is more pungent.

Sherlock is wriggling desperately on the bed, but he still holds his hands on the headboard, letting John indulge in his fantasies, because it's exactly what he wants, but even his iron will can do nothing when, without warning, John's tongue breaches his hole.

“AAAH! John! JOHN!”

John raises Sherlock's legs on his shoulders and plunges his face into his ass, positively eating him alive. His tongue is relentless in its meticulous exploration; it's warm and wet and wonderful, and Sherlock is lost in the sensation.

“John… I’m going to…”

Suddenly John's tongue is gone, and Sherlock shouts his distress.

John sits on his heels, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and takes deep breaths to calm down; he is ecstatic for having brought Sherlock to the brink of orgasm in such a short time, but he doesn’t want it to end like this, not this time.

He wants to claim ownership over Sherlock’s body.

"Not yet," he gasps in a hoarse voice, and Sherlock looks at him: even though it hasn't been nearly touched, John’s cock is throbbing and dripping precum along the shaft.

When John reaches out to get the lube in the night stand, Sherlock takes the opportunity to grab the erection and pump it hard, but John’s hand closes around his wrist, stopping him.

"You're not the only one who's ridiculously close," he warns.

"Then hurry up."

Sherlock raises his legs, showing John his waiting hole, already wet with saliva.

The need to penetrate it’s overwhelming, so he doesn't waste any more time and prepares Sherlock with two fingers, finding him already relaxed because of his previous ministrations.

In his haste, John didn't warm up the lube, but the cold gel is a blessing to Sherlock, who feels the orgasm recede: he wants to come with John buried deep inside him.

The air in the room is warm and thick, almost suffocating; droplets of sweat slide over Sherlock's skin, inviting John to follow their path with his tongue, and John’s head is swaying in a sea of red desire. Everything is incredibly erotic: the elegant shape of Sherlock's ankles, the veins in relief along the his muscular arms, his half-open mouth, his chest rising and lowering laboriously.

“Sherlock, are you…?”

“Now!”

John pours an abundant dose of lubricant onto his cock, brings Sherlock's legs back over his back, and leans the glans against his hole.

He wants to go slow, he really wants it, not to hurt Sherlock, and also because he wants to drag those moments forever, but apparently Sherlock will have none of it: his eagerness has the best on him, and he slams his hips down, taking the whole glans in.

“Fuckfuckfuck!”

John's hands claw violently  the sheets, while a jolt of pleasure runs through his body. Sherlock is amazing, soft and hot, and John pushes, pushes, pushes, until he is balls deep inside him, and bends him in half, to reach his sinful lips, that he captures in a fiery kiss.

Their moans blend with the sound of John’s balls slapping against his arse and the creaking bed springs.

“Christ, Sherlock, you're so tight, so good, so very good…” John whispers, peppering his face with feverish kiss.

Sherlock’s arms are on his shoulders and his heels are digging into his arse to keep him closer.

John lifts, coming out of him almost completely and eliciting a whimper from Sherlock, but then he slams inside again, grazing his prostate, and Sherlock cries, arching his back.

“That's the spot, uh?” John pants, a mad grin on his face, and repeats the move.

“AAH! JOHN!”

Sherlock clamps him down so hard it's almost painful, and John muffles a curse against his chest.

“Again, John!” he begs, and John can’t resist, obliging him with all he has. His valiant attempt to keep a rhythm and drag it as long as he can, soon fails; his testicles ache and he needs to come, to consume Sherlock until they’re a single entity.

His pushes become erratic, and when Sherlock bites his neck, pulsing hot seed between their stomachs, the orgasm sweeps over John like the high tide, leaving him dazed, and he barely has the strength to roll over not to crush Sherlock with his weight.

In the post-coital calm, questions about their relationship resurface in John's mind, until Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck, caressing his bullet scar, and he grumbles, "Your questions are very boring, since you already know the all the answers."

“Do I?”

He almost expects Sherlock to huff and leave, instead he lifts up on one elbow and kisses John reverently on the lips.

“Yes, you do. Now let me sleep,” he says, before yawning and interlacing his long legs with John’s ones.

"Al... alright, then," John smiled, and combs his fingers through the inky curls, closing his eyes.


End file.
